


county⚘fair

by sonshineandshowers



Series: #plantlife [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Dreams, Established Relationship, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Plantaphilia, Romance, Sensation Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25759324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: In Gil, Malcolm's found a person who's willing to explore his sexual desires without judgment. After dreaming of plants, Gil takes Malcolm on a special date.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Series: #plantlife [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868740
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	county⚘fair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HoneyMayBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyMayBee/gifts), [Missy99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy99/gifts).



> for friends who asked "what if gil takes malcolm to visit plants afterward?" thanks for your encouragement <3

Walking through a front entrance with an iron gate, handcut sign, and streamers, the only detail Malcolm knows is that Gil is taking him for a surprise. A date, a celebration that it is Tuesday, and there aren’t any expectations that they need to be somewhere the next morning. In the early evening light drifting toward dusk, he walks alongside his partner who wears a bubbling smile over whatever he’s hiding.

For the grand statement of the entryway, there is surprisingly little activity inside. An expanse of grass littered with merchant tents yet to come down. A few people working far off in the distance near a building. The quiet of the countryside they needed to take a two hour drive to get to.

“This way,” Gil says, guiding Malcolm’s arm at the elbow and directing him toward the trees.

“Where are we — “ Malcolm starts.

“What did I say?” Gil reminds him, giving him a look that the ten times he asked in the car were more than enough, and asking again wasn’t going to change his answer.

Malcolm smirks at Gil, but doesn’t push revealing the ruse any further. They wind their way to a gigantic tent but continue walking past to an isolated section between it and the woods. Several tables are lined up, gourds, potatoes, sprays, even full bouquets reaching for attention. “The fair closed yesterday — they’re clearing out the horticulture tent,” Gil says, pointing down the row. “Everything will be ditched into the woods tomorrow.” The last landmark of summer, tipping toward fall and throwing away all of the warm moments with it.

Running his fingers over the soft petals of a white hydrangea, Malcolm looks along the table for its companion pinks and blues. The anemone is next, his fingertips picking up the slight textural differences as easily as the range of fabric quality in his tailored shirts versus off the rack. To someone unaccustomed, they might feel similar, but to someone who had worshipped the specimens, studied every angle appreciating their craftsmanship, he sees the unique beauty in both.

“This isn’t what I wanted to show you, though,” Gil says, and Malcolm looks up to Gil’s wide pupils in the low light, his smile glinting with appreciation. Gil’s the only one who’s ever looked at him like that — catching his smile will never get old. He nestles a poppy in Malcolm’s pocket, the longer stem snapped off between his fingers so it perks just above the top. “Each local nursery makes these big works of art. Grab some fruit — c’mon — I’ll show you.”

Malcolm stills. “Some fruit?”

“It’s all going to get wasted.” Gil points down the long tables and walks in that direction. “Fruit, vegetable, whatever you want. It’s all clean.”

“How do you know this?”

Gil shares the same look he kept giving him when he didn’t want to spoil the surprise. “You’re not the only one who knows people. Grab me some peaches.”

A pear and an apple seem the easiest things to carry, so Malcolm holds them against his stomach with one arm along with a peach. Another peach goes into his other hand, and he wipes it off on his shirt as he walks to Gil before taking a bite out of it.

“Thanks,” Gil says, extracting the peach from his fingers and biting overtop where Malcolm’s lips had just been. Before he can take another, Malcolm sneaks up on tiptoe to kiss him, catching the sweet juice on his lips. Chasing the flavor further into Gil’s mouth, Malcolm deepens the kiss and pulls on the back of Gil’s neck to dip his head. It’s nice to be out in the open in a space where no one will look at them for indulging in a little affection. When they part, Gil taps Malcolm’s nose with his index finger. “Don’t drop dinner.”

They fall into a relaxing walk, Gil’s arm wrapped around Malcolm’s waist, trading the peach back and forth. At a gap in the bushes at the edge of the woods, Gil pushes him through, and they wind up in a small clearing of rough cut grass. A collection of eight to twelve foot sculptures look back at them, the full spectrum of vibrant colors represented. _Living_ sculptures of every plant material imaginable.

“Go look,” Gil says, closing Malcolm’s gaping mouth with a thumb and forefinger on his chin. “Surprise.”

Malcolm doesn’t move. The sheer size of the art forms is daunting, though they’re poised as a garden of friendly giants beckoning his entry. 

Gil starts taking the fruits out of Malcolm’s arms and rests a hand at the small of his back. “Do you want one for the road?”

Malcolm shakes his head. In his gratitude that Gil secretly planned a trip two hours away for an activity they would both enjoy, he finds the ability to move. He first encounters an oversized throne of sunflowers, kale, gourds, and on closer inspection, broccoli, gooseberries — “These are really cool,” he says, his fingers running over the diverse textures.

“That’s the honorable mention.”

Malcolm looks down at the plaque proclaiming the same, then turns back to Gil, squinting his eyes. “There’s no way you can see that from back there.”

Gil shrugs, a coy smile on his face.

“Come teach me about every one of these, professor,” Malcolm says, curling his fingers, asking him to come closer.

They wind through a butterfly filled with zinnias and marigolds ready to buckle under its own weight, a gigantic globe with more lavender than could ever go in his soap, and a huge trophy cup made entirely of ombre roses. Gil shares what nursery made them, whether they won a prize, and all of the details on the flowers down to the tiniest baby’s breath. Malcolm pitches in a few of the names every once in a while that he’d picked up from Gil or researched to keep up with his interests. They wind through most of the plant-filled sculptures, admiring their construction.

“What do they do with all these?” Malcolm asks. He takes the remaining pear from Gil’s hand, cleaning it and biting into the flesh.

“Into the compost in the woods with the rest,” Gil says in between bites of the last peach, the rest of their fruit nibbled away in their journey through the sculptures.

“Do you think we could make a small one of these in the garden?” Malcolm asks. They’re beautiful art pieces — one might bring him some sunshine on the roof on days that are blanketed in grey.

“All of these are cut foliage, so they won’t keep. We could make a planted display, though — they’re heavier, but we’re not gonna make a ten foot plant tower on the roof, so it shouldn’t be an issue,” Gil teases, his eyes squinting at the end to join his smirk.

Malcolm chuckles. “I was thinking like three.”

“Good — won’t have it falling through the ceiling that way. You don’t want company in your office.”

They chuck the core and pit toward the woods. Gil leans Malcolm into the stand of a bumblebee, resting against marigolds, black-eyed Susans, and dried coneflowers, and loosens his collar to kiss up his neck. The tickle of Gil’s goatee against the sensitive skin matches the petals caressing his ear each time Gil presses him a little bit further into the sculpture. “Rudbeckia,” Malcolm teases against Gil’s ear, blowing a warm breath on his earlobe.

“That doesn’t work on me the way it does on you.” Gil chuckles and nips Malcolm’s neck, leaving behind a red bloom. “This, though.” He takes the poppy out of Malcolm’s pocket and runs it from his forehead, slowly over his nose, and down to his chin before swirling it over the mark he’d left. Malcolm’s eyes close, a little gasp of breath the only thing audible in the air between them, his cock twitching in his khakis. “Do you like that, kid?” Gil asks against his ear, his tongue flicking out and a kiss following as he runs the poppy along the other side of his neck.

Malcolm slides his hand under Gil’s untucked button down, holds him closer by his hip so the combination of textures continues to rub against his skin. Cock pushing against his zipper, perhaps reacting more than he should in a public venue, he pulls away and clears his throat. “Show me some more?”

Gil paints Malcolm’s nose with the poppy, and Malcolm grabs at Gil’s pocket as he changes his mind to pull him closer, a few fingers sliding in and linking them again. Fingers connecting with squishy plastic, Malcolm pulls them back out with the contents between them, the sight unmistakeable. “You brought lube?” Malcolm asks with a quirk of a smile, yet puzzled at the same time.

Gil’s hand darts out to take the packet back, but Malcolm’s hand swerves. The chase is short-lived, Gil’s hand retrieving it on the next go and returning it to his pocket. “That was supposed to be — “

“A surprise?” Malcolm cuts him off. “How about we say I’ve already been surprised this whole evening.” He gets closer, arm wrapping around Gil’s back and leaning into Gil’s chest when he welcomes him. “But how about you catch me up on whatever else you have planned.”

Gil clears his throat, giving him a moment to collect himself. “It’s private property, secluded, near dark — “

“You brought me here to have sex?” Malcolm cuts him off again. It doesn’t seem entirely like Gil, so he’s not totally following the logic path.

“No.” Gil shakes his head to emphasize his point. “I brought you here to have a nice evening together.”

“That you want to end in sex.”

“Only if you want it to.” Gil gives him a look of concern.

“I’m not bothered, I’m surprised,” Malcolm says, waving a hand in front of them as if to wash away any doubt that Gil may have had. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

Gil nods. “Place is ours. I thought we could maybe give you a little taste of your dreams.” It’s his turn to look a little unsure of how Malcolm might react, his hands fidgeting. He dips his finger under Malcolm’s chin and captures his lips in a brief kiss. Malcolm feels his face warm as he blushes — he doesn't know how he ever found someone as special as Gil. “No need for that — the way you react to petals against your skin goes straight to my cock. Every sound you make.”

Malcolm gives a small smile, still feeling a little bashful. “What did you have in mind?”

Gil gestures at the sculptures around them. “Pick one.”

Malcolm’s already touched most of the sculptures, knows which plants will feel best against his skin. “The chimp,” he says, and Gil starts guiding him in that direction.

“The usual, kid — you want to stop, we stop and leave,” Gil reminds him as they walk.

They’ve explored many different things in their sex life based on a set of common agreements, communication being one of the core tenants. “You too, Gil.”

The chimpanzee sculpture is covered in a variety of grasses, the draping of the blades creating the effect of hair even bushier than the animal it was based off of. Its arms cross in front, providing a seat at table level. Malcolm sits and tests the spot. “Remember, there’s the actual throne up front,” Gil says.

“I like this,” Malcolm says, and as he rocks, it holds him just fine. The two of them stare at each other, trying to gauge whether they are okay to proceed and how they will do so.

“I’d like to go pick a few things from the other sculptures and come back,” Gil says. “Is that okay? You can get comfortable.”

Malcolm nods. “Yeah.” Gil kisses him and departs on his mission.

Amongst the grasses, Malcolm’s shirt is no longer the right texture. He takes it off and rests his bare back into the soft strands, cool as fine linen sheets. The angle of the sculpture’s face lets him tip backward a little bit, and he undoes his belt, setting all of his removed clothing off to the side in more of the sculpture’s fur. He closes his eyes, the world behind them only slightly darker than the space around them. They’ve been wandering long enough, it’s nearing dark.

When he’s overtired, frankly most of the time, his mind creates fantasies with whatever’s available as input. Plants are only the latest feature to headline one of his sex dreams, following a long line of other inanimate objects, animals, and experiences. It’s not that he wants to have sex with any of those things — it’s that he craves sex with Gil, and his thoughts at the time happened to meld and create experiences in his dreams that he might want to have. His sleepytime brainstorming could turn into anytime inspiration with Gil.

“You look comfortable,” Gil says, leaning over him and taking a kiss. “Bouquet for my city boy?” He holds up a small collection of multicolored flowers and leaves. Malcolm moves to take it, but Gil grasps his fingers instead. “Can I share it with you?”

Malcolm nods.

Their fingers separate, and Gil plucks a piece of lavender from the pile, running it over Malcolm’s chest and down to his belly button. It tickles, carries a light scratch, but when it comes up to his nose, it smells of the best body wash a man could ask for. Giving Malcolm a light kiss, Gil traces the lavender back down his chest and stomach, following it with kisses that warm Malcolm’s middle. “That okay?” Gil asks, checking his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Gonna go through them all — find out what you like,” Gil says, a daisy drifting over Malcolms’ pecs. Its center swirls over his nipple, Gil’s teeth following.

Each combination of petals and pistils brings a mix of delicate feather and moderate pressure. Sometimes leaves catch Malcolm’s hair or skin, giving a bit more of a scratch, but it’s immediately offset by the loving touch of a paper-thin caress. The combined effect of glide after wandering glide over his skin is his breath catching when the petals brush along his belt line, his dick hardening as Gil follows up kissing or licking, his skin cooling as the moisture dries in the evening air. As Gil goes through lilies, zinnias, and other blooms, Malcolm’s chest becomes a mixture of pollen that keeps growing with his cock until his pants are uncomfortably tight.

“These currants are edible — often used in dye,” Gil says, holding up a stem with berries. “Might feel a little different — let me know if you want me to stop.” He dusts him off, trying to clear the way for the next sensation.

Gil pops a few of the berries onto Malcolm’s chest and presses them into his skin, bursting a deep purpley-red. The moisture brings with it more chill, but as Gil finger-paints it down to his stomach, the slide almost feels like water. Gil’s tongue follows, cleaning up his handiwork and leaving a slight stain against his lips. 

Toes curling from Gil’s dedicated care and cock throbbing in his pants, Malcolm’s had enough teasing. “C’mere,” Malcolm says, pulling Gil to him. His tongue licks a strip across the entirety of Gil’s lips, getting a taste of the slightly bitter berries with a strong undertone of Gil. He grinds his hard cock into Gil’s stomach, straining against his pants, seeking some form of relief. Gil’s hard-on presses against his leg, likely needing similar friction. Gil undoes Malcolm’s pants and removes his shoes. “Leave my shorts,” Malcolm requests, then the rest of his clothing disappears to the other part of the sculpture. “Don’t want grass in my ass.”

“Could get the lawnmower,” Gil teases, then he’s on his knees, sliding the elastic of Malcolm’s shorts underneath his balls, freeing his cock. He gives him a long lick from root to tip, under no pressure to go any faster. Saliva left to cool, Malcolm’s awareness of his arousal is heightened. “Which touch is your favorite?” Gil asks, hands smoothing over Malcolm’s thighs.

“Yours.” Malcolm smiles, and Gil rewards him with another lick along his length left to air dry.

“What flower?”

Everything had been a new sensation, like a spa pedicure with the finest rose petals, but better. Each plant had shared its touch, left behind its signature etched on his skin’s surface. He did have a favorite, though. “Go back to the poppy.”

“First, huh?”

“Left an impression.” That it had been the very first one _Gil_ had picked when he could have chosen anything across all of those tables.

“Tell me how good it feels, baby,” Gil says, tracing Malcolm’s jaw with the petals.

Malcolm gasps, sure to be vocal, as he knows that will drive Gil into taking off his pants as his cock threatens to bust through the zipper. Gil’s lips close around his head, and Malcolm moans, the wet heat and suction sending a buzz through his system. The only unfortunate thing is that they’ve done so much playing, it’s hard for Malcolm to see Gil’s work in the darkness. He can catch bits of it, but he mostly has to rely on how everything feels. The gentle touch of the poppy skittering over his skin. Gil’s tight focus at his cock as he twists and tugs. Malcolm fists the grass, the strands spilling out between his fingers like long claws. “Fuck me, Gil, fuck me,” he says, breathless, and Gil’s head bobs faster, his lips’ clasp almost viselike. Gil’s moving like he wants him to come rather than wait. “Your cock. I want your cock,” Malcolm demands, pushing at Gil’s forehead.

In seconds, Malcolm finds himself pulled up from his seat, shorts removed, and pushed into the side of the sculpture, his whole upper body spidering out face first into the soft grass. Gil’s snug behind him, now missing his own clothes, his firm cock poking into the soft flesh of Malcolm’s hip. Lubed fingers slide between Malcolm’s cheeks, press against his rosebud as he bucks his hips at the air. One slips in, the soft stretch bringing a sigh from his lips. “My beautiful flower,” Gil says. Malcolm giggles. “Too much?” A second finger’s stretch brings a groan out of Malcolm, and he focuses on relaxing. “So tight for me, baby. Your pussy’s gonna feel so good around my cock.”

Malcolm palms Gil in his hand, kneading his balls and grasping his cock, sliding precome down his length. He relaxes himself by directing all of his attention to Gil and soon begs to be filled with more than fingers, whimpers cutting through the air.

“Think you’re good?” Gil asks, running his thumb over Malcolm’s bottom lip.

“Yeah,” Malcolm says, gnashing their lips together in a bruising kiss.

Bent into the sculpture, as Gil pushes into him, it’s like Malcolm couldn’t choose between soft and hard, practically hugging an Angora rabbit and getting penetrated at the same time. Gil ramps from slow, shallow thrusts to slightly deeper, running the poppy along Malcolm’s neck. It’s difficult for Malcolm to focus on one sensation, the fluttery flower and grass juxtaposed with Gil’s compact thrusts. “That’s it, baby,” Gil says, moving a little more until he’s fully seated in Malcolm’s ass. Malcolm gives his cock a few slow squeezes as he acclimates.

“Good, Gil,” Malcolm says, and Gil starts moving again, each slow rock into Malcolm pushing his face into the grass.

As Gil builds to a steady rhythm, Malcolm realizes he can push into the sculpture to meet Gil’s thrusts. The two work together, the slap of their hips through the hastening pistoning motion the only thing audible in the night air. Gil fists Malcolm’s cock and throatily says in his ear, “Yeah, baby — ride my dick. Gonna make you come so hard.”

“Not yet — I want something else,” Malcolm says. He’s buzzing feeling full of Gil, yet there’s still so much opportunity around them that he doesn’t want to miss out on. His fingers can feel another possibility underneath the grass where he’s latched on tight so he can push off and meet Gil’s thrusts.

Gil’s hips stutter, losing their rhythm. “I can — “

“No, you come first. You’ll need a clear head.”

“Alright,” Gil says, picking up his pace again.

Each snap of Gil’s hips into Malcolm’s bounces his cock toward the grass, but it never touches him. Flower abandoned and both hands tight around Malcolm’s hips, Gil slams Malcolm onto him, taking every bit of pleasure he can get on each thrust. Gil comes on a grunt, locking Malcolm’s hips against his and keeping him there as he grinds through his orgasm. Malcolm’s flipping in his arms as soon as he pulls out, drawing him into a long kiss. Sweat transfers chest to chest between them.

“What can I give you, kid?” Gil asks, holding his cheek, now seemingly only interested in one thing.

“Come look at this,” Malcolm says, guiding Gil back around to the front of the sculpture. He pulls at some of the understructure, revealing grapevines twisted with jasmine vines. Look might be a stretch, so he guides Gil’s hand to the collection of vines wound together. “Cut off my air just a little?”

“Bright, it’s too dark to see your face to know whether you’re okay,” Gil protests.

“Not a lot — just enough to feel it,” Malcolm barters. “It’s one of the big highlights in my dreams.”

Gil pauses, clearly thinking about how he can give Malcolm what he wants while allaying his own concerns. He snaps off a bit of the grapevine and moves to stick it in Malcolm’s hand, but finds his hand wrapped around his cock. “Can you stop for two seconds?” Gil says, his voice a little frustrated, yet not short. Malcolm can’t help it, he’s been humping air while Gil had all the friction, yet he complies and gives Gil his full attention. The piece of grapevine gets slid into his hand. “You poke me with this if you can’t breathe,” Gil says, coming across like a requirement. “I do not want this going to the point of blackout — not tonight. Malcolm — “

“I’ve got it, Gil,” Malcolm assures and pulls him in by the goatee for a kiss.

“Put my pants under you. I’m gonna put my shorts back on.”

Laying back in the sculpture once more with Gil’s pants under his ass, Malcolm wraps the vines around his neck. It’s a little awkward — they can’t quite be pulled tight like in his dreams — but they have the same heavy weight against his throat, the threat that with a snap, they can cut off his air supply. Gil’s head returns to steadily bobbing at Malcolm’s cock, his hand reaching up to tweak Malcolm’s nipples or squeeze at the vines around his neck every once in a while to lessen his air. It’s too difficult to keep enough pressure in that position, though, Malcolm squirming for more.

“I know what you want, but I’m gonna have to use my hand, kid,” Gil says, standing and leaning into Malcolm. More lube goes onto his fingers, providing a slippery glide along Malcolm’s cock. Gil’s hand pushes into the vines, which push into Malcolm’s throat, finally producing the delicious feeling of his air disappearing.

“Ugh,” Malcolm groans, hand twitching as he fights not to struggle. Gil’s hand rocks against his cock at a pace that’s pleasurable and will eventually get him to orgasm if they keep going. He’ll get there faster if Gil tightens his hold at his neck.

Gil lets go of the vines, then doubles his efforts at Malcolm’s cock, twisting around the head and striping his shaft in several firm strokes. Malcolm’s breaths come in pants as his body races to catch up to Gil.

“More,” Malcolm demands. “Choke me, Gil.”

The grapevines have a rough, woody texture with hairs on the outside that dig in when Gil presses hard enough. The jasmine holds the lot together, the leaves smooth against his skin. Crushed under the weight of Gil’s hand, the bundle presses into his throat in the closest approximation of his dreams that they can get. “Come, baby, c’mon,” Gil encourages, swirling around his head.

Gil lets up on the pressure at Malcolm’s throat and jerks his cock harder at the same time. Malcolm’s head spins as he’s saturated with a rush from his body being able to breathe again and the tight channel in Gil’s hand, and he comes in spurts that coat his stomach.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Malcolm hears Gil say as his brain emerges enough from the fuzz. Gil’s hand is still on Malcolm’s cock trying to stroke the last drops of come out of him. His other is unwrapping him from the vines and pulling him in close. Both arms move to holding Malcolm against his chest, stroking his hair.

“That was amazing,” Malcolm says, a little hoarse and breathless.

“I’m glad,” Gil says. “I wanted this to be special.”

“Oh, it was.” Malcolm chuckles.

“Happy Tuesday, city boy,” Gil says, kissing his forehead.

“Happy Tuesday.”

Gil cleans Malcolm up with his undershirt and helps him dress, then makes sure they’ve collected all of their things. The poppy gets tucked back into the pocket of Malcolm’s open shirt, the discarded stack of flowers gathered again into a rough bouquet to take with them. “Let’s go back to the hotel,” Gil says and pulls a small flashlight out of his pocket to guide them back to the car in the dark.

“Gonna have to step up my planning game,” Malcolm jokes, drowsy against Gil’s side.

“I’m sure your brain will come up with something.” Gil kisses his hair.

“Pancake breakfast, but you’re the pancake.”

Gil tickles his side and jokes, “One way to get you to eat.”

“Thanks for getting me, Gil.” Malcolm hugs him a little tighter. Gil’s the only partner who’s never seen his dreams and ideas as weird, instead spending his energy exploring them.

“Of course, kid,” Gil says, and “I love you” gets whispered into Malcolm’s hair so softly, Malcolm’s not sure whether he heard or imagined it.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
